A Story Told Through Wayward Words
by Sociopath in the TARDIS
Summary: "They share something more than friendship and it's the only thing that Sherlock hasn't quite managed to find a word to fully describe." Full summary in first chapter. Eventual Johnlock; definite angst.
1. eccedentesiast

**I thought I'd try something new and so I basically came up with something where I pick a word for every day and write a short chapter of a story around it. This will maybe end in Johnlock, maybe end in complete and utter angst. It depends entirely on the words that I find in my dictionary or on the internet.**

**Based partially around Sherlock's fixation with language and my own love of learning new words.**

* * *

**eccedentesiast**

_noun._

A person who fakes a smile.

* * *

He loves words, especially the complicated ones that nobody really knows about. He likes how they can explain so much and yet never really explain anything at all. He likes how he can use them to get what he wants from people, manipulate them and get the information he needs. He likes the easy-to-place labels but doesn't particularly bend to them; uses them to make it easier to categorise things within his mind palace but not to put on himself (unless he so happens to need to use the label to prove a point: _"High functioning sociopath, do your research."_). He likes how words can say everything he needs them to if only he can muster up the courage to spit them out.

However, unfortunately, getting the words out is the hardest part of speaking. Thinking the words up is easy, done in an instant. But actually being able to say them takes more effort than he would gladly admit. That's why he hasn't told John yet, probably why he never really will. It would be risking far too much if he just blurted it out randomly, and so he won't. He doesn't want to ruin the perfectly good relationship that has formed between him and John just because of some stupid emotions that he's having.

The dictionary snaps shut with a distinctive and definite _snap_, dust swirling up from the pages before Sherlock places it back down on the desk with a small sigh. John stirs at the noise (of course John is there, he's always there; an unrelenting presence that is both craved and unwanted), turning his head towards Sherlock as he frowns. The detective pushes his hands into his hair and takes a few deep breaths to steady himself on the edge of this cliff that he has unknowingly climbed. It's not that he doesn't want to feel this (well, he doesn't, but that's beside the point), it's just the uncertainty behind the whole ordeal. If he knew how John felt it would be entirely likely that this would be just as hard as it is already because he wouldn't want to be the one to initiate something out of the blue. But he doesn't know how John feels, and hopefully John doesn't know how he feels either.

"You okay, Sherlock?" John says and Sherlock realises that he's clenching his hands into fists, tendrils of hair caught between his fingers. He loosens his grip, pushing air out of his lungs in another sigh.

"Yes, fine. Just..." He fights to find a good excuse, extracting his hands from his hair entirely as he swallows. "I've encountered a problem with one of my hypothesis for this experiment," he says after a good few seconds of pause, lifting his head up and pulling the corners of his lips up into a rather forced smile as he looks over at John.

Wonderful, naive, unassuming John. Sherlock has no idea how he has managed to keep him in his life for so long, even after three years of hiding from him for both of their own goods. They're still best friends no matter how much Sherlock may manage to royally fuck things up, but that's probably part of the reason why John is still here, part of Sherlock's unorthodox charm that somehow continues to pull the good doctor into his space and into his life. But they both know that what they have together isn't just a friendship, not even a close friendship. There's too much long eye contact; too many wayward touches; too much giggling at crime scenes; too much not quite flirting; too much intense tension between them. It's almost painful but completely and utterly depended upon to be present.

They share something more than friendship and it's the only thing that Sherlock hasn't quite managed to find a word to fully describe. He's not really sure if he wants to find a word for it. What they share is something that cannot be articulated and can hardly be described with the simple tones and tenors of words. It feels special if he cannot find a label to put onto it, if it can stay fully individual from everything else.

Their more-than-friendship-but-we're-not-a-couple relationship will never be something that Sherlock can describe with words. But he doesn't want to be able to.

"Do you need some help with it?" John asks and Sherlock's smile drops into an expression of confusion.

"Why would I need you?" Sherlock asks and then immediately realises that what he said what 'a bit not good', realises that he could definitely have phrased that much better than he did.

_"I don't have friends." "No, I wonder why."_

_"You may not be the brightest of people, but as a conductor of light you are invaluable."_

_"Alone is what I have, alone protects me." "Friends protect you."_

Part of himself is still in the defensive and some of the walls that he built up before he met John continue to persist and stay standing in their more than shaky foundations. He's still programmed to the default setting of 'Push People Away', even if he wants to keep John close.

"No reason, no reason at all," John sighs, standing up and putting the newspaper down on the table before Sherlock can take back what he said, reword it and make it good like he knows he can't be. John grabs his coat from the back of the door and slips it on.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock questions, realising too late, again, that what he said should have been an apology. But John, once more, speaks before he can speak again and try to make things better.

"Out," is the simple reply that shows Sherlock that he's hurt John's feelings, that he's still a bit raw from Sherlock's return six months ago.

It shows Sherlock that everything will never be quite as alright as it was in the instant that he faked his own death to try and make things better, evidently to only fail in his efforts. John will not trust him like he once did and Sherlock understands and loathes the fact, yet he refuses to blame John for his own actions. This gap that is forming between them is entirely his fault; he just needs to find a way to close it.


	2. reconcile

**reconcile**

_verb._

friendly relations between,

co-exist in harmony; make or show to be compatible.

* * *

It's not until late the next afternoon when John returns home, hair mussed and clothes unchanged but visibly creased. Sherlock barely has to spare him a glance from the couch (from which he hasn't moved for at least three hours) to know that it's highly likely that John had gone to the pub and, as the colloquial term would say, 'got laid'.

(_Clothes creased, though to an unreasonable degree if he only went drinking (yes, drinking - strong smell of alcohol; small stain on the sleeve of his shirt near the wrist – spilt his drink); two buttons missing from the shirt – taken off in a hurry; stitching of inside seam on trousers loosened – pulled and yanked violently. Hair sticking up prominently on one side; slept on his side in a bed – yes a bed, his back isn't stiff. Not wearing socks, easy to see from discomfort - shuffling from foot to foot – so he left in a hurry. The sex was good but the woman he slept with wasn't. Yes, a woman; smell of perfume is strong, and lipstick marks still present on the curve of his neck. Conclusion: he got drunk, picked up a woman, slept with her, but didn't want to start a relationship and so left. Elementary._)

Sherlock doesn't mention it though, merely stays laid perfectly still with his eyes fixed on the patch of damp they had on the ceiling above the couch (probably from a previous experiment). Luckily, John also commits not to mention it and merely steps into the kitchen after hanging his coat up on the back of the door, hooking it soundly onto one of the hooks. The sound of the switch on the kettle being pushed down is loud in the silence of the flat. The bubbling of water that follows a few seconds after, along with the clank of mugs (two; not as angry as he was) and spoons (three taps on the side of the cup; distracted), is even louder. It makes 221B Baker Street feel whole again after a long night of missing one of its promiscuous tenants.

After a few minutes, a cup of tea is placed down on the coffee table to his side and soon after John is placed down in a chair at the desk. Sherlock closes his eyes and listens to the sounds as John pulls his laptop out and sets about starting it up. There is a whirr from the fan (on the verge of breaking; will fix it for him later) as the outdated machine is turned on. Soon enough, it is followed by the clacking of keys - that signifys that John is typing his password in ('northhumberland221'; change it for him later) - along with another, slightly louder, whirr from the fan as the laptop slowly logs him in. Not long after, there's a steady _tap, tap...tap_ as John begins to type out the case that they finished about a week ago.

It had been an interesting case, not brilliant, but nice and distracting to keep his mind occupied. It had started off painfully simple as the locked room murder of a daughter of a politician for the local area. The motive was easy enough to figure out alone as soon as he had been told it was a politician who was the mother of the girl; hatred of the political party (Conservative – not exactly hard to hate). The mystery had only grown more complicated when their main suspect had been killed, though through further investigation and following loose trails and wrong roads John had suggested that maybe he'd died a natural death. Sure enough, a scan of the dead body had shown he'd had an undiagnosed aneurysm in his brain, close to the frontal lobe. From there on in, it was simply a matter of pulling the facts together, getting the story straight, and letting Gregson deal with the tedious paper work.

While the case wasn't exactly complicated, he longs for a taste of a mystery despite it being merely a week since the case ended. It's been a while since he has had one that required him jumping over rooftops. Though maybe it is better if they don't have any more like that until John gets better at jumping considering what happened last time.

John had jumped and fallen short of the other side, arms hitting the overhang of the roof and gripping on until Sherlock had pulled him up. They'd joked about it afterwards (_"Damn my legs!"_, _"Occupational hazard though really, isn't it?"_, _"It's not my fault I'm short you tall bastard"_) – well, John had mostly been the one to joke about it. Sherlock had listened to his voice, smiled, and laughed even at some points as they ate Chinese at two in the morning, bundled inside the same restaurant as they had after the first case they had solved together.

It isn't the cases that Sherlock craves anymore, nor is it the thrill of the chase that accompanies them; it's the moments afterwards that feel almost domestic to a degree. Just him and John being...friends? Being what? Just being, he assumed. Just...being—

A pen bounces off his nose.

"Oi, Sherly," John speaks up, voice clear as he talks. He leans on his elbows as he peers over his laptop at Sherlock, "Are you—"

"Don't call me 'Sherly'," Sherlock interrupts, sitting up and rubbing ink off of his nose, though he supposes from the way that it smudges over his fingertips that it must look rather comical.

"Yeah, yeah," John smiles at him, then pauses and frowns slightly as he hesitates before speaking again, "Are you okay?"

"I'm _fine_, John. Though," Sherlock swallows, picks up the cup of tea and sips (lukewarm; been sitting and thinking longer than assumed) before continuing, "I must say that – in this instance – I am obliged to apologise."

"Sherlock, it's fi—"

"No, John, I want to. What I said was...endangering to our friendship and that it is likely to have reminded you of what happened Before," Sherlock continued, looking down at the beige liquid in the cup, "I take advantage of your presence in my life far too much and I wish for you to know that you are desired on a level that is more than necessity – though it appears that you have become necessity in more ways than I thought you might." Sherlock sighs and runs a hand over his face, words tangling together as he forces them out, "I value your friendship and I am sorry if I offended you."

There are a few moments of silence where Sherlock continues to stare at his now too-cold-to-drink tea. After two minutes, he looks up and over at John who looks well and truly shell-shocked at this apparent revelation. Sherlock swallows and frowns at him, looking away again before he stands up and takes his cup into the kitchen to pour the useless tea down the sink. Well, he would, however John stands up with him and grabs Sherlock's wrist before pulling him into a tight hug.

It's awkward at first because Sherlock isn't expecting it, not at all. But after a few moments, he relaxes into it and wraps one arm around John in return, burying his face in his flatmate's hair as he holds on as tight as he can whilst still keeping a steady grip on the cup. Eventually, after a disputable amount of time, John loosens his hold and pulls away from the embrace. He's smiling in a way that can only be described as bashful or possibly shy and it looks both endearing and out of place.

"It's fine, Sherlock. I, um, I value our friendship too," John says and gives Sherlock a little pat on the arm before going back to his laptop.

Sherlock smiles softly and revels in the warm feeling that is fluttering inside his chest, behind his ribs and pushing against them pleasantly, before he turns into the kitchen to dispose of the tea.


	3. callow

**callow**

_adjective._

(esp. of a young person) Inexperienced and immature.

* * *

For the next few days after their little argument, there's a lull in the slight tension that appears to constantly surround them. They get on better, are more at ease in one another's company, and generally don't argue (unless it's over the mundane things, like the hands that are currently occupying the bottom of the fridge for the experiment on how muscle tissue reacts post mortem at colder temperatures). Sherlock likes it better this way: quiet, calm, friendly. He's never managed to initiate this form of relationship with anyone else and he enjoys it, even if the quiet does become a little boring sometimes.

Something he wasn't expecting after his sort-of-but-not-really confession was John's increased amount of touching. Sherlock is never the one to initiate that but he revels in the soft brush of their fingertips coming together as John passes him coffee, or his pocket magnifying glass, or his mobile phone; he savours the feel of John's skin on his skin when they help each other into their coats, or when John gives him a rare hug, or when one of them places their hand on the other's arm. It seems that because of him being open with his feelings John is more at ease in their relationship, more secure in the knowledge that Sherlock isn't going to just up and leave him suddenly, or hurt his feelings on purpose. Because he wouldn't, hurt John's feelings that is - he's just inexperienced in this form of social interaction. He's never had to be versed in it before past what he required in order to get the information he needed for a case. John, in these ways, teaches him how to be human.

Three days after their little argument, a client comes in with a case; something along the lines of jewellery and other possessions going missing from her house while her husband is away on business trips. Sherlock takes the case because it's simple, nice, and calm and he may as well help this woman even if it will only take about an hour or so. Maybe it will impress John; maybe that's why he takes the case in the first place. He doesn't particularly care for the details of why he takes such a mundane puzzle, simply leaves it at the explanation that it will stop him from being bored, even if it is for a little while. The client sits in John's usual chair, looking about as sad as a person who is having their possessions stolen has any right to be. John has made her a cup of tea and she sips it as she tells him about what has happened.

"I've contacted the police about it, before you ask," she continues on with her story, "But they continue to blame the babysitter which is stupid. I know her, personally, and I know she would never steal from me."

Sherlock nods along with the story, already knowing who it is anyway but needing more data (always collect the most data possible) before he can make a sound conclusion of this case (if something so simple can be referred to as such). He asks, "You say your husband has been away on a lot of business trips recently?"

"Oh, yes, lots. He works in banking so he needs to go away a lot to meetings an such. Just last week he was in Glasgow for a conference," she answers, and Sherlock nods along as John stays standing beside him, a steady rock that keeps him grounded as he listens to this boring tale (for the data!), "It has only been in the past few months though, he never really needed to go away before that all too much. He says he's being grounded with more and more work recently, which is understandable because of the recession, you know?"

"He sounds like he works hard, your husband," John says, bringing a bit of humanity to the rather static conversation (always bringing humanity to everything; bringing colour to darkness). The woman smiles at him and places her now empty cup on the table.

"If you want to get anywhere these days, you have to work hard, right?" John and her share another smile that has too much emotion laced into it for Sherlock's comfort. He shifts in his chair and changes the conversational topic.

"You said this has been going on for a while, why only consult the police or myself now?" he asks and the question appears to make her uncomfortable for a reason that Sherlock can't quite put his finger on (nervousness? Embarrassment? No, neither of those; something more...), which annoys him because there's always something that he ends up missing.

"Well, I told you about the jewellery going missing, correct?" she asks, and they nod, encouraging her to continue, "It's...along the lines of that. But it wasn't because the thing stolen was of great value or anything." She adjusts her position in the seat, sighs, and continues. "I...a ring was stolen, one belonging to my mother. It wasn't of great value or anything like that, though I suspect it would be worth its fair share if pawned.

"It, um...it belonged to my mother. She's dead now, of course, but she gave it to me as an heir loom, if you will. Something her mother gave to her when she died. It...it means a lot to me, more than all of the other things put together, and if you can get it back for me then I will be happy. It's the only thing that truly matters in this investigation, Mr. Holmes - that and proving that my dear babysitter is innocent of the crimes that the police are accusing her of. If you can retrieve it then I will reward you greatly. It, well, you get the idea - it just means a lot to me and I will not forgive myself if I do not do everything I can to get it back."

Sentiment. Ah. That should have been more obvious! Of course it was sentiment that brought her here! Should have realised that as soon as she mentioned the babysitter being accused of the crime. Stupid, stupid.

"John and I would be glad to take the case," he says, smiling one of his put-on-a-façade-for-the-commoners smiles that never fails to put them at ease with his frankly brash personality, "Though I must say that I am unable to accompany you to your house immediately to investigate. If you leave your address, we will try to be there at some point this afternoon. Have a nice day."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I truly do appreciate it more than you can comprehend," she stands and John shows her to the door, closing it soundly behind her after she has jotted her address down on a piece of paper and given it to him. Sherlock has no doubt that it is likely she appreciates it more than he really understands, but that has nothing to do with solving this not-quite mystery and thus is unimportant. He turns to John and grins wide, a smile that he knows never fails to worry the good doctor, but one that he also never bothers to rein in properly.

"Get your coat, we're going out," Sherlock says, making his way past John himself to grab each of their coats from the hooks on the back of the kitchen door.

"I thought you said you were too busy to go out," John replies, though he takes his coat from Sherlock and slips it on anyway (ever the loyal companion; truly invaluable).

"We are!" Sherlock points out. He twists his scarf around his neck and threads the tails of it through the loop of resulting fabric.

"How are we?" John asks, eyebrows furrowing as he tries to work out what Sherlock is saying, what his positively insane flatmate (friend? Colleague? Something more?) is actually insinuating, "That was the first case we've had in a week and a half, and I'm pretty sure that hand experiment in the fridge doesn't require me or coats. So what are you up to that's so important?"

"We, John, have got ourselves an appointment with a certain banker," Sherlock grins, pulls the door to 221B Baker Street open and runs down the steps, sound in the knowledge that his companion will follow.


	4. incisive

**incisive**

_adjective_.

1. (of a person or mental process) Intelligently analytical and clear-thinking.

2. (of an account) Accurate and sharply focused.

* * *

It doesn't take long at all for Sherlock to track down the name of the bank that the client's husband works at now that he has her name and her address. It's merely a matter of knowing how to use a Google search engine, Fcebook, and a bit of intuition. All of it is simple, really, and it surprises him daily how many people do not know how to do this sort of thing.

They take a cab, as always, to get to the bank. Sherlock knows that John dislikes the amount of money that they spend on taking cabs to and from destinations but he refuses to use public transport unless it's absolutely necessary (e.g. if you're covered in pig blood, holding a harpoon, and not a single cab in all of London will take you). Plus, he's undeniably melodramatic and the average black cab looks a lot more mysterious than a red bus or the tube does - he's all one for keeping up a certain image in order to influence the view that people he knows have of him.

Upon entering the bank, it is easy to see that it's not as busy as the wife suspected it would have been (nor as busy as they expected it to be, judging from her description of how much work the husband has going on). But that all fits with the theory that Sherlock has going so he doesn't particularly care. So long as he can get this case over and done with, he'll be fine. It's too mundane to be kept going for longer than it needs to be. He and John walk up to the receptionist's desk, the collar of his coat being popped down along the way (cater to the normals). He pulls his suit jacket straight and smiles at the female receptionist as he comes to a stop in front of her. It takes merely a glance to read everything about her life: the failed relationships, the daddy issues, the insecurities and hobbies and habits.

_(Taking from the way she's fiddling with the phone, it's safe to say she has only been here for a few days. Possible that it could have been just a new job, more likely that it's because she's fresh out of University. But she wasn't hired for just her degree in IT - at ease with the computer when we walked in; able to touch type when talking to colleagues; knows her way around a spread sheet, judging by the financing document that is open. The other bankers are staring at her: she was hired for her looks. Suit is cheap, sleeves rolled up to hide how they're too long for her, but it takes a trained eye to see it is cheap (stitching and seams are a dead giveaway); chose it carefully._

_Used cocaine in University - scars from scabbing underneath the openings of the nose; more pinkish scars visible inside the nasal cavities. She shies away from the male employees: possible her ex-boyfriend - not current, the shoes show she's single, obvious - influenced her in taking it; observation of her being single supported by this as she doesn't take cocaine any more: why keep up a habit when a supporting notch has been taken out of the equation? Shying away from males could also support daddy issues; keeps set distance between her and older males. More at ease around younger ones despite her ex-boyfriend._

_She knits, has done for a while, despite her age - can tell by callous on the inside of her left index finger (possibly left handed? No, pen marks on the outside of her right hand; ambidextrous for some activities). Age could show her mother taught her how to knit when younger - most likely conclusion. Writes for fun; smudges of faded ink on the back of her hand, not dates or times or work related - can make out words 'abandoned' and 'house'. Amateur novelist.)_

He doesn't say any of this though, not a word until she asks, "Can I help you?"

"Of course," he replies, "I'm Sherlock Holmes and this is my..." Colleague? Friend? Companion? Flatmate? What? "This is Doctor John Watson; we're here to see a man called Damien Smith."

"Do you have an appointment?" she asks after a few seconds of contemplation, looking them both over.

"No, we don't. However, his wife has asked us to see him regarding some missing jewellery and I should like to get his account of the story, if he has time to see us, of course," Sherlock replies, John still standing silent at his side (he's annoyed; should have said 'friend').

"I'll call and say you're on your way up," she answers, already reaching for the phone, "Take the elevator. Fourth floor, seven doors down on the right. The door will have his name on it. Good luck, he's been in a bad mood lately."

"Let's see if we can remedy that, shall we?" he smiles at her and she smiles back, tapping a few numbers in before she lifts the phone to her ear and waves a hand to shoo them off. He gives a coy wink before turning on his heel and heading over to the elevator doors. After a few moments of waiting, he and John are encased in the metal walls of the lift and are waiting for it to take them to the fourth floor.

"Did you actually wink at her?" John asks, and Sherlock can see the slight frown that is pulling the corners of his lips down.

"I winked at you on the first day that we met," Sherlock says, shrugging.

"Well, you weren't exactly flirting then, were you?" John sighs and leans back against the railing that is attached to the metal wall, "Mr. Married-to-my-Work doesn't do flirting, does he?"

"How would I know, John? I've never come across someone who goes by such a name," Sherlock replies, sniffing indignantly as the lift doors open.

He steps out and heads down the corridor to the seventh door on the right that the receptionist told them about. He counts the doors off as he passes them, sticking to one side so the few people who are also navigating the corridors can easily walk past him without them so much as bumping shoulders with one another. They reach the door, the name plastered across the fogged glass of the window in Times New Roman capital letters. It's not at all flattering but it is at least professional looking. He knocks sharply on the wood of the door.

"Yes, yes - come in," answers a voice from inside the room and it's fairly obvious who it is.

Sherlock pushes down on the handle of the door, opening it and ushering in John before him, holding the door open so he can access the room. He follows shortly afterwards, standing instead of taking one of the two seats that sit in front of the desk of the banker. Now, does he approach this subtly or be blunt about the subject? Bluntness always paid off before; why fix something that isn't broken?

"I understand that my wife has asked you to investi-," Mr. Smith starts, but doesn't exactly get very far before Sherlock cuts him off.

"It would be in your greatest interest if you were to tell your wife of your gambling debts as soon as possible, Mr. Smith. She is an understanding woman and I am sure if you tell her now and return the items that you stole - namely the ring - that you will be able to earn her trust back once more, in due time," he says, and the way in which the man across from them freezes would be comical if it weren't for the slightly tragic situation.

"How did...I don't, I don't know what you're talking about Mr. Holmes, but if you and Dr. Watson would kindly like to leave-"

"Ah, but if we were to leave then I would be unable to hear your side of the story, Mr. Smith," Sherlock cuts him off again, walking around the chair he had been leaning on in order to sit in it. He suspects that once the banker starts talking it will go on for quite some time, "Don't worry about leaving out the details. I assure you that while you will be judged, we will not say anything of it." He smiles.

The Banker doesn't appear to know how to start, or how to speak for that fact. But Sherlock allows him a few minutes to get his mind together; it is rather alarming when an utter stranger is able to read your gambling habits right off the bat without knowing you past what your wife has told them. Taking all that into account, he recovers the ability of speech much faster than Sherlock expected he would.

"I...I am a banker and while I am able to make a fair living, there are outside variables that affect that. You know about the gambling debts so I assume you know that's why I stole the jewellery?" he turns the statement into a question and Sherlock nods in order to get him to hurry up and get on with it, "I'm not too much in debt, only a few hundred thousand. Which, while to everyone else may seem a lot, is nothing to a banker. The boys set up a bit of a gambling ring and it got out of hand. I owe them all money, and I owe a lot of people I don't really know money as well. So I stole the jewellery and pawned it off, but even the most expensive of the items couldn't even cover a fraction of the debts."

"So you used the money you got from pawning them to keep gambling," John interjects and the banker hesitantly nods.

"I thought that if I could make a big win then I could pay off all of the debts and get back the items I pawned. I thought it would only be a matter of time before I had to make a big win," he sighs and runs his hands over his face, "Obviously, I was wrong. The banking hasn't been going all too well recently. I've had to go to a few business meetings over it; they're thinking of laying me off. So I can't use the money from the job to pay off the debts. The only comfort I had was that I might be able to make a big win."

"Thank you, Mr. Smith. John and I shall be going now," Sherlock says, and stands from his seat, "You have told us all that we really need to know. My advice to you would be to tell your wife and possibly see a therapist about the gambling issues. Your wife is the sentimental sort; I've no doubt that she will eventually accept what you have done and forgive you for it. Tell her I am sorry, by the way."

"For what?" Mr. Smith asks, looking rather sorry for himself.

"For being unable to keep the appointment I arranged this afternoon," Sherlock smiles and pops his coat collar up before turning on heel and heading out of the door.


	5. antithetical

**Took a while to update because I thought I might as well give this thing some plot. ****Expect around forty chapters now, aha.**

**This chapter is short but I'll try and upload another one today, to make up for the lack of chapters over the last couple days. So much for writing a chapter a day; I can never stick to any rules I lay out for myself.**

* * *

**antithetical**

_adjective._

1. Directly opposed or contrasted; mutually incompatible.

2. Connected with, containing, or using the rhetorical device of antithesis.

* * *

During the cab ride back, he can tell that John is annoyed. More precisely, he can tell that John is annoyed with with him; he can read it from the straightness of John's back, the extra inches of space that have been put between the two of them (feels more like miles), the placement of the good doctor's feet, the way he looks out of the window and keeps his eyes firmly locked on the buildings that pass them by, the way he- you get the idea.

The thing he doesn't understand about the situation is why, precisely, John is angry. It confuses him as to why John is giving him the cold shoulder all of a sudden. It dawns that his friend's change in mood could have (most likely has) been caused by something he has done, but he hasn't done anything differently to how he usually does when he carries out his investigations. It's entirely possible that John could just be in a bad mood. But why would he be? He was perfectly fine when they went out, and he and Sherlock had been on better than good terms lately. That sort of mood swing is only found in people with bipolar disorder and teenage girls at 'that time of the month'. He tries to deduce it;

_(Judging from how he's turned to face out of the window, it's likely my fault; he's looking out of the window so he doesn't see me, not even in his peripheral vision. His hands are clasped together – seeking comfort from himself? Could show that it is possibly related to a personal issue about himself. Highly likely that the issue is in the past and he was merely triggered to think about it; wouldn't have had a mood swing so quickly afterwards if it were a current issue as his mind would have already been on it and his mood would have already been affected by it. I triggered it because he's facing away from me. But how could I have? What have I said? What have I done? I don't understand-)_;

but it doesn't exactly work, so Sherlock settles heavily on the fact that it must (somehow) be down to something he said, or did, or thought.

After forty three more seconds of the horrible silence that has stretched out between them, Sherlock decides that he cannot put up with it for the remainder of the twenty minute (taking into account traffic and road works, of course) journey back to their humble abode on Baker Street. He unfolds his arms and places the hand closest to John in the space on the seat between the two of them to show his friend that he wishes to be closer, even if it's only on a repressed psychological level (though he doubts that John will pick up on something as subtle as that). His fingertips inadvertently brush against John's thigh and catch the doctor's attention.

"You're mad," Sherlock says before the man now intently staring at him can get a word in edgeways. "I don't understand why," he continues, swallows, and rubs his fingertips gently against the seam on the leg of John's jeans, eyes transfixed and watching the movement carefully.

"Because you acted insensitive today, when we were talking to that man," John says. His words are spoken in a softer tone than Sherlock expects them to be.

"Mr. Smith," he says, voice slightly mumbled.

"Yeah. Him," John replies, tilting his head down to watch the continued movement of Sherlock's fingertips on the surface of his jeans. He doesn't say anything about it, just watches as they swirl in patterns of nonsense half way up his thigh. Sherlock curls his fingers inwards and draws his hand back from John's leg before looking up at the man, locking their gazes and staring at him, eye to eye.

"I don't understand why you're mad about it, John," he says, squeezing his fist a little tighter, "I'd be grateful if you were to explain it to me."

"Yeah. Yeah, sure," John answers, shifting in his seat so he can turn is body to properly face towards Sherlock. After what seems to be a moment of hesitation, he reaches a hand forwards and grasps Sherlock's hand (obviously, the one that had been tracking down his leg a few seconds before) in his own. The fingers loosen and splay out over John's own as they continue to maintain eye contact with one another, "It...frustrated me, that you'd be so brash over an issue so serious."

"It was a serious issue?" Sherlock asks, curling his fingers around John's hand. It's a shock to see how white his own hand is comparison to John's slightly tanned one; it's far paler than he expects it to look (likely paler than is necessarily healthy, if honesty is a factor in the point).

Their hands look like polar opposites: Sherlock's hand is nimble fingered, endlessly careful and unhealthily pale - John's hand is tanned by the Afghanistan Sun and calloused from use of guns and various medical equipment. John's thumb brushes gently at the sensitive skin of his palm and he forgets what he was thinking about.

"The gambling," John sighs, as if he's said something a bit-not-good, "I, um. I gambled a fair bit, when I was younger of course; definitely not now. Harry had the bottle, my Dad smoked, my Mother obsessed over soap operas to an unhealthy degree...it was only natural that I turned to gambling."

"I didn't realise," Sherlock says, and for once it's truthful. He isn't lying. There's nothing in John's demeanour to tell Sherlock that he was once a gambler, that he probably still is on some level. So he says, "You're good at hiding it," because it's true.

"Thanks, I guess. Glad I could hide something from the world's only Consulting Detective," John looks down at their hands, squeezes for a second, then lets go.

Sherlock lets his hand rest in the space between them; John turns to look out of the mirror; the Cabbie continues to drive their chariot back to Baker Street. The world continues to spin, and outside the taxi it continues to rain down on the concrete jungle that is commonly referred to as London. Sherlock's hand continues to feel warm from John's touch, but that's different because eventually the warmth will fade.


	6. inconsequential

**inconsequential**

_adjective._

Not important or significant.

* * *

By the time the cab pulls up outside of Baker Street, Sherlock's hand is tingling but he's not sure if it's because of how much he's been thinking about the warmth of John's hand on his or because John has managed to physically mangle his nerve endings somehow. He decides that he doesn't particularly care so long as the sensation doesn't fade any time soon (reminder of John's continued existence and presence in life). The offending hand is shoved into his pocket as he flings open the door of the taxi and climbs out, ignoring the shouts as John calls after him.

Unlocking the door takes no time at all, and soon he's heading up the seventeen steps to 221B. He opens the door to the flat (their flat). It's unlocked, obviously - no point in locking it if there's a door with a lock on downstairs. Besides, the most competent criminals can pick a lock anyway. The Coat (needs a capital letter; strictly identifiable) is dropped in a heap of wool and silken inner lining on the wooden floor as Sherlock makes his way over to the sofa. He spreads his arms and masterfully drops over the arm to fall face down onto the leather covered cushions beneath him (would have been a more comfortable landing than when jumping off of St. Barts: garbage trucks are not a soft landing).

John steps into the flat with the sound of creaking floorboards and a sigh as he spots Sherlock's discarded coat thrown upon the floor. There's a rustle of fabric as he straightens the coat out, and another sigh as he closes the door and hangs it upon the hook on the back. His own coat follows soon afterwards before he moves into the kitchen to make tea. Sherlock stays stubbornly still on the sofa, face down in the fabric with his arms stretched out in front of him. He hadn't taken into account how hard it would be to breath with his nose pressed into an unfortunate angle by the leather but he doesn't want to give anyone (John) or anything (his body, namely his nose) the satisfaction that would come from him moving. Who cares about breathing anyway? Undeniably boring.

Someone is saying something about his coat and cleanliness and he guesses from what he catches of the subject being discussed that the person who is talking must be John. He doesn't actively listen to any of the conversation, merely lets the words settle in his mind as the good doctor yammers on about how waiting for him to get out of the cab would have been a brilliant idea before he stormed off upstairs. Or how picking up his coat, at least, would have been no waste of energy or effort. It wouldn't have taken much thought, exactly, picking up his coat, would it? But he still didn't do it because he was an arrogant sod. John was so articulate, but it was amusing to watch him get angry, and nice to listen to the sound of his voice as it drifted through the flat. It didn't particularly matter what he said, so long as he stayed and continued to say it. After a minute or so, John stopped speaking and went about actually making the tea he had gone into the kitchen to make. There's a snap as the switch on the kettle is flicked down as John shuts up altogether. Sherlock listens to the sound of not-quite-silence.

The sound of bubbling water is loud within the quiet flat as John boils water in the kettle to make tea with. Footsteps are sharp slaps against the wooden floorboards as his flatmate steps about the kitchen. Cupboards are opened and closed with muffled slams. The fridge is investigated with a sharp intake of breath (hands on the second shelf have been spotted again), and then closed again with a heaved sigh (John sighs too much). There's a small ding as the kettle completes its task of boiling, and the splash of water as its contents are poured into mugs over tea bags (if it's PG Tips, John is getting punched). Small contact sounds are made when the kettle is put back on its base; metal clinks as the spoon catches against the sides of the mugs; a squelch and a rustle of plastic as the used teabags come into contact with the bottom of the bag lined bin. Scrapes echo as the bottoms of the mugs drag against the countertop surface before being fully lifted, just as rubber soles drag against wood when John doesn't lift his feet properly as he makes his way over to Sherlock.

Clinks sound close to his ear when the mugs are placed on the table (should use coasters; heat is bad for the wood). The hand on the small of his back shocks him into tensing but he relaxes as John smooths it up to his shoulders. Sherlock shifts into a curled up position without his friend having to ask, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. John sits down next to him and Sherlock can tell out of the corner of his eye from how his flatmate's legs are positioned that there's a furrow between the other man's brows.

"Come on, Sherlock. Sit up," John says quietly as he rubs a spot between Sherlock's shoulder blades that reminds the man of two things. 1) It's been four days since he last slept. 2) He really is starved of physical touch.

"Mmmnh," Sherlock replies oh, so articulately but rubs his face against the leather of the couch as he pushes himself up into a seated position. His feet drop to the ground and he toes his shoes off before reaching for his tea on the coffee table. He sips before saying, "Typhoo."

"I know you don't like PG Tips," John smiles at him softly and stands up to turn the television on before returning to his seat.

They spend most of the afternoon on the sofa and drink around three cups of tea before John forces Sherlock to eat something ("It's been three days!"). Lestrade doesn't call and neither does the new surgery to tell John he's working tomorrow. They don't talk much, but they don't exactly need to. Most of their wants can be conveyed through meaningful glances/stares and small touches to the hands, knees, shoulders.

It's eight o'clock in the evening when Sherlock feels the reminder of four and a bit days of running on almost nothing hit him in the base of his skull. He tries to keep his eyes open as he listens to the voice of Stephen Fry drone on trough one of the repeats of 'QI' that John has switched to on 'Dave' that so happened to pop up in between the endless showings of 'Top Gear'. Sherlock hadn't realised that anyone could ever talk at a frequency that actively suggested that a sleepy person should sleep no matter what their mind tried to invoke over the matter.

He curls on his side slowly and his head rests on John's thigh (good cushion; soft, comfy) and his eyes close of their own accord. When John gently guides his fingers into Sherlock's curls, he knows that the battle of wakefulness is completely and utterly lost. He surrenders, helpless, to the world of the unconscious.

* * *

**Word basically describes this whole chapter.**

** And that was the end of the Beginning.**


	7. prudential

**prudential**

_adjective._

Involving or showing care and forethought, typically in business.

* * *

When Sherlock wakes in the morning, it's to the sunlight streaming in through the still open curtains of the living room, light making its way insistently into the room through the windows that face out onto Baker Street. He pushes his face down into whatever he was using as a pillow and remembers that, when his cheek meets the strong but soft and strangely yielding flesh (it's because he's relaxed) of John's upper thigh, he'd fallen asleep with his head in John's lap the night before.

John's limp hand falls from his head, fingers slipping out of the strands of his hair, when he sits up and rubs at his eyes with his palms. He stands up fully and stretches the length of his body, muscles cracking and joints popping, before he makes his way clumsily (still drowsy from the soft blanket of sleep) into the kitchen to make tea and possibly breakfast. He catches a glance of the clock on the way, hands ticking slowly around its face as he squints and futilely attempts to read the time when his eyes are still slightly fuzzy and unfocused from just havning woken up. A few blinks later and he is armed with the knowledge that it's just past nine o'clock in the morning. Not too early; not too late.

The kettle is flicked on with automatic movements, just as mugs are pulled from the cupboard (the clean shelf; don't want food poisoning from the leaking eyeball jar) and placed dutifully upon the countertop. Fingers tap an erratic and ever changing rhythm against the synthetic and glazed surface as water takes its sweet time to boil (molecules vibrating; atoms heating; pressure of the water vapour trying to equalise with the pressure of that surrounding it; science). Teabags are hastily shoved into the cups just as the kettle finishes boiling, their need of presence in the process forgotten until then. Water pours; milk splashes; spoons clink.

Sherlock drops the spoon into the sink and picks up both the cups, stalking silently over to where John is still sleeping on the couch to wake him up. He places both cups on the table and leans to wake the other man up. Sherlock smile and leans to kiss John on the cheek before he catches himself, pulling back and assessing his actions. It takes him a few moments before he swallows and places a long fingered, nervous hand upon John's shoulder and shakes gently. When his friend doesn't wake up, he shakes again but a little harder. Further action of name mumbling is added when, once more, it doesn't work.

"John," he says, voice sounding quiet even in the relative silence of the flat, "John, wake up."

"Mmmnn," John replies, about as articulate as he's ever been, and Sherlock tries shaking his shoulder again to wake him up more. It seems to work on some level because the ex-army doctor blinks slowly and asks, "What time is it?"

"Going on half past nine in the morning," Sherlock answers and moves to sit on the couch next to John now that he knows he's awake, "I made tea."

John seems shocked because he tenses for a moment, all of the muscles in his shoulders pulling tightly together as his eyes go slightly wide. He blinks once, twice, then the corners of his lips twitch and pull up into a grin. "Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock chuckles and shakes his head, smiling as he picks up his tea and sips. As John stretches and leans to pluck his own mug into his grasp, Sherlock begins to think about how nice a day this could end up being. Him and John just being together in the flat, maybe with John showing him some more of those silly movies he'd been telling Sherlock he needed to see (do not need to see: irrelevant information).

He had never been more wrong in his life.

Around midday, when they're halfway through the second of the 'Lord of the Rings' trilogy, their flat is graced by the over-abundant presence of one Mycroft Holmes as he steps inside their residence after what must have been at least five minutes of insistent knocking with the handle of his umbrella on the wood of the door. Sherlock had full out refused to answer because he knew that heavy but steady gait from anywhere, whereas John had been asleep and was unable to hear the knocking in his sleep, until it woke him up. The British Government stepped tentatively into the humble glow of their home before making his way over to the armchair that John often occupied and pulling the briefcase he had been carrying onto his lap, making its existence known to both John (who had paused the TV and leant back into the sofa) and his brother (who was thoroughly annoyed at him being inside the flat).

"I have a...proposition for you," Mycroft says, and Sherlock snorts as he leans back into the cushions of his chair. He raises a potent eyebrow at his brother.

"Could you have worded that any more dramatically? Or are you taking a day off?" Sherlock asks. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees John raise a hand to cover his mouth (finds it funny but inappropriate to laugh or smile). Sherlock fights back a smile of his own, continuing to stare at Mycroft with a neutrally blank expression instead.

"Likely, if I tried. Though I assume that - with all your pent up need for the melodramatic - that you could do a far better job than I," Mycroft gives a little business smirk before smothering it back into a taut line and looking down at his briefcase.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock questions, a frown etching its way slowly to curve his lips downwards as he watches his brother shuffle his hands through the papers in the briefcase. He knows why he's here, of course, he just wants confirmation of what he is to deny.

"I feel that's fairly obvious," Mycroft says, and pulls a brown folder from the clutter of pages with a flourish and a small smile that can only be described as 'proud of himself'.

"I'm not taking the case," Sherlock answers immediately, everlastingly stubborn when it comes to helping his brother with anything at all.

"It's a matter of _national importance_," Mycroft pushes, words enunciated to wring an air of importance from them. Good thing Sherlock doesn't care about importance, else he would have been inclined to humour him.

"If matters of national importance were more interesting, I'd entertain their notions more often," Sherlock bites with venom, mouth curling into an expression not unlike a snarl, "Now if you'll please leave, Mycroft."

"Oh dear, brother, don't be angry with me merely because I interrupted your cuddling session with Dr. Watson," Mycroft sighs, resting the folder on the arm of his chair as he snaps the briefcase in his lap shut with a decisive _snap_ and directs it to the floor, "I know you have a fair few feelings for him, but those can wait until _after_ the case."

"Um, a fair few feelings for me?" John asks, confused, "Sorry, what? Can somebody explain this to me? A few seconds ago it was brotherly - well, brotherly for you - jibes, and now it's, what? Sherlock's...feelings for me? I thought this was for a case, not so you could get one over on him, Mycroft."

Mycroft gives Sherlock a look that questions why he hasn't told John yet (words aren't easy to say), why he has these feelings in the first place (maybe not a high functioning sociopath), and why it had to be for someone like John and not a nice, female, smartarse instead (because John is better than someone like Irene). Sherlock merely glares at him until he looks down at the case file and stands up with a sigh. He walks over to the coffee table and places the file down on the surface (closer to John; don't deduce it) before giving each of them an exasperated smile.

"The best of luck, Sherlock. And I do hope you change your mind about the case," Mycroft says, before turning away towards the door.

"Goodbye," Sherlock ends as the door closes. There are a few moments of silence where Sherlock stays completely still and John continues to be quietly confused about most of what was just said.

"What he said about...your feelings for me?" John prompts, eventually, when Sherlock reaches for the remote to restart the film that had been paused.

"Ignore him, you know how he is," Sherlock directs a fake little smile at his flatmate that seems to relax him a little bit, and restarts the film.

* * *

**Yes, yes I will continue to waste paragraphs describing the process of tea making. Shh.**


End file.
